Love and War are Far From Fair
by Mudblood Slytherin and Proud
Summary: The Dark Lord returns to conquer Britain, in a time when all are familiar with the Harry Potter books. Enslaving muggles, Lord Voldemort attempts to implement his New Order. "There are millions with magic who would kill their closest friends and cherished relatives to achieve the status and safety I can afford others." What comes first: survival or loyalty to one's own kind?
1. Chapter One- Arrival

Chapter One

"Who else was on our train?"

"Dunno, other than a load from Oxford. I've definitely come across one chap who's at Warwick. Could have started back as far as the North West but to be honest, I've no idea where it left from."

"Have they taken Birmingham yet, this lot? Someone from our train who got on before us might know."

"Beats me. All I heard is they're rounding up students from the University towns. They've got Edinburgh, apparently. Durham, York, both been taken... Oxford, obviously. Don't know what's happening elsewhere."

The young man threw down his scrubbing brush.

"Oi, d'you mind not splashing me with that muddy water?"

"Bugger this. Bugger these _people, _these wizards, whoever they claim to be. I've been scrubbing bloody potatoes for God damn hours. It's cold and my hands are wrinkly and wet and I'm hungry. I'm on track for a First, just got an offer from Goldman's for the summer and here I am, fucking _scrubbing _in who knows where we are! What the hell are we doing here?"

"Look, mate, do you mind not making a scene? People are staring." Turning him back to face the sink, girl lent in, whispering "We don't know who's a friend and who's the enemy here. Just keep your head down, pass me some more spuds so I don't look like _I'm_ slacking, and talk more quietly, would you?"

He sighed, handing a couple to the girl, who proceeded to hack at them furiously.

"Why are you so keen to act the obedient _slave, _then? You can't be scared of these loonies?"

She continued to stare at the task in hand. "I don't know about you, but I saw too many people killed when the University fell. My God it... it was awful." Her hands began to shake, slightly.

"When they took Anne's... Everything just turned to rubble, you couldn't see through the dust. And then, they made us watch. All the tutors and staff, they just lined them up and-" She took a shuddering breath and gulped "And there were the students who put up a fight, my College Dad-"

"Ssh. Please. Don't cry. Not so loud. Remember what you said, just keep your head down? I'm sorry," he added at her look, "I'm a bit rubbish at this, you know, comforting. I didn't realise you'd been through something like that."

She smiled weakly. "Well you're lucky you've not."

"I was in the Rad Cam when they came. They didn't destroy it or anything, just everybody out and then marched us through town."

"What, and no-one protested?"

"It's funny, it never occurred to me not to. 'spose that's what the others thought, too. It just, you know, felt like the right thing to do, what the voice said."

"Must have been magic! Did it feel horrid, you know, someone controlling you?"

"If that's what it was, no. Felt quite nice, actually. Like the snuggley feeling you get when you wake up warm in bed." He grimace, "that was, until that packed, dark train, didn't know what was going on, standing for hours and hours in the dark- yeah, fair enough, you know that part."

"So they destroyed St. Anne's, you say? I wonder if there's anything left of Christ Church?"

He shook his head, trying not to think of what may have happened to the friends he hadn't seen, since what felt like a long time ago (although he had no way of knowing how long), whom he might never see again. Hopefully some had made it here alive. Wherever _here_ was.

"Well, like you said," he continued, brightly, "head down and focus. None of them will have any reason to single us out."

"Oi, girl. Bring them 'tatoes over here. Need to get them on the boil now, not long until we're to serve up starters, so help start dishing soup when that's done."

"'k I'm coming." With barely a glance at her companion, the young woman rushed off. The man looked after her until she seemed a speck on the far side of the voluminous kitchen, large as a banqueting hall, before losing her among what looked like a hundred forms scurrying to and fro. He then realised. He'd never asked her name.

After the pudding course had been served and the aperitifs were on their way up, that man entered. The one who was clearly one of them, one of that lot, yet seemed different, somehow. He always came alone. Mr. Snape, he was called, with hair to match his shiny, black, billowing cape. The sheer contrast between pristine attire and otherwise unkempt appearance would have been laughable. Would have been, if he wasn't one of them.

The voice was soft and yet carried around the enormous room. "All of you, gather here, in front of me. Now."

Some hurried to obey orders. Others shuffled slowly in their exhaustion.

"I am told," he continued, voice crescendoing, "that you are students from some of the oldest, some of the most prestigious and most highly regarded, muggle universities in the country." He smirked at their dishevelled, in many cases, unsightly, appearances. Most dirty, some blood-stained, all crestfallen, each a loser in a battle they'd had no chance of fighting against. "I must say, if this is the best your world has to offer, it is hardly surprising that you are such primitive creatures."

"As it is, being deemed of less-limited intellect than others of your kind, you are to be trained in household management. You are a privileged group indeed, to be considered worthy of serving your magical masters thus. The running of a household requires a great deal of responsibility and effort. With time, some of you may earn trust, even, be rewarded, by your masters." He turned without another word, stopping at the door, before addressing the assembled once more. "I trust it will not be beyond your most capable minds to quickly learn how to cook root vegetables properly. The potatoes I sampled at supper needed at least another three minutes. Now return to your duties."

The girl who'd peeled said vegetables raised her hand. "I'm sorry, Sir, but what are they? We weren't given any instruction other than to prepare dinner-"

The man strode forward, and in a quick motion, grabbing her by the shoulders, threw her to the floor and aimed a sharp kick in the ribs.

"Silence!" he bellowed. "Cease bawling, on your feet, and stand with the others."

"That was your first lesson. Mark it well, all of you. When you are given to your masters, do not expect punishment for insolence to be so lenient."

The question had been a legitimate one, he supposed afterwards, but they ought to learn to use their initiative and make themselves generally useful, as he had done, until receiving orders. Orders could be slow in coming. When one is at the bottom of the food-chain, others tend to forget one's existence. Even if you have nothing to do, expect a beating at the very least for being found idle, worse for expressing surprise or injustice at it.

Physical pain, the man had found, as well as fear, having witnessed it in others, of its being inflicted on oneself, was a most effective tool of instruction. If anyone in the kitchen had spoken further, he thought as he turned the corridor, he would have delighted in administering further beatings until the message had sunk in. Delighted to feel in control once more. To at least _feel _powerful.

Pity, they'd never allowed that sort of thing when he had taught at Hogwarts. How perverse, he mused, that as a mere slave, Severus Snape had been granted the right to exercise more power over students than as a free man.


	2. Chapter Two- the trouble with power

This fic is rated m for occasional strong language and adult themes of slavery and university life. Usual disclaimer of no copyright infringement intended, all characters belong to Jo Rowling etc. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

The Dark Lord would not refute an accusation of being the most unpredictable of employers. That is, if one were brave, or rather, foolish enough to notify him. Were such a comment offered, he would likely nod his head graciously with a dismissive gesture of the hand, chuckle in apparent good humour, and then curse into oblivion anyone who dared to laugh too. As for the speaker, the punishment would really depend on the Dark Lord's mood. A harried Voldemort, deep in thought of battle plans, would wordlessly cast the killing curse, and proceed on his way. Given a lack of burdensome strategic planning, he might well indulge in the delightful, bitter-sweet taste on the tongue of a carefully drawn-out cruciatus, until the screaming stopped and it was no longer enjoyable. But if ever he were to consider the matter, the Dark Lord would be first to admit that he was difficult to please.

Passing through his Ministry without a glance at the thousands of occupants, all abandoning their work (_his _vital work, he thought darkly) to prostrate themselves pathetically before him, the Dark Lord made for his study. Would that there had been time, he'd have cursed a few fools indiscriminately for abandoning their desks and allowed the message to make a lasting impression on his remaining minions to get back to work. It did not occur to him that this was contradictory. The Dark Lord broached no criticism, not even from himself. But were anyone so foolish as to not bow low before him, his fate would be far worse than a mere curse.

Pathetic dolts. Snivelling nitwits. It was so terribly dull that there was no one left who challenged him, no one who could excite his desire to reprimand and reproach for their lack of respect. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown[1]", muttered Lord Voldemort as he ploughed onwards through the spiralling corridors, sending two child slaves squeaking from their mops in fright, narrowly avoiding sloshing water over their master as the ran with their buckets, away from this volatile viper.

Power could be boring, he thought glumly, noting he felt indifferent at the thought of killing the creatures for nearly wetting him. He couldn't be bothered to take their worthless lives.

"_Is this how depression feels?" _No. Lord Voldemort would not succumb to such pathetic, human sentiments. He was immortal, for Mordred's sake. What he needed was stimulation, absorbing schemes to plan and implement, to reshape society, to invert existing wizard ways; to stimulate even greater levels of muggle subordination.

The Dark Lord would never admit to being lonely, not even to himself, but his life was so tedious without distraction: those who were too fearful to speak their minds did not make for stimulating conversation, for verbal sparring. Even Severus Snape had ceased to be a novelty. The man was simply resigned to his position.

Pity, he had been the most delightful spectacle of defiance and disbelief on reawakening from his petrified sleep, so many years after the war's end and his master's apparent defeat. The Dark Lord had made precautions, had anticipated defeat and had known the traitor would be of use when he returned. It had not been his intention to kill such a capable servant. Besides, Severus had longed for death, so consumed was he with self-loathing and that _pathetic_ sense of responsibility of his for the loss of so many in the wars. Where lay the punishment of a traitor in granting his very wish?

Lord Voldemort continued to wonder, now with no sense of where he was going, what he was doing, what needed to be done. He simply allowed himself to be consumed with a sense of self-pity. This war was proving too easy. What would remain when he was master of all the nation he had so longed to control for so long, when the mundane necessities of daily administration _completely_ overtook grand plans of conquest and the New Order? When the New Order became the current, nay, ever-lasting, future order for all, what would be left for him, Lord Voldemort, to seek to strive for?

He found that he had walked to his chambers without realising. Sighing, Lord Voldemort set his mind to the tasks of the day ahead and entered. He groaned, greeted by the sight of the usual petitions, requests for permission to travel and press releases awaiting his approval.

He sighed, approaching the ornately carved mahogany writing desk, topped with green leather and a border of gold leaf. A brass inkwell and pen tray set sat besides neat, but mountainous, piles of paperwork. He inspected the topmost item.

NEWS RELEASE, EMBARGOED UNTIL 23:00 HRS, 31 AUGUST.

_The year's intake of first years are most excitedly awaiting their arrival at Hogwarts. One excited young man (photographed), a model of blood purity and proper, wizarding pride in the younger generation, proudly displayed his green-lined silver uniform to this correspondent, expressing his pride at the prospect of seeing our Lord Protector at the start-of-term banquet..._

Said Lord snarled, scrunching up the article before letting it fall to the floor. Was that the best the Propaganda Department could produce? Such unoriginal subject matter, appalling writing and, worst of all, something that wouldn't be published for weeks?

"Severus," he called. The man appeared by his side.

"Severus, I cannot cope with all this paperwork. Do something about it."

Without a word, the man incinerated the offending documents into a pile of dust, extinguishing the flames before the desk became _too _singed.

Lord Voldemort exhaled, exasperated.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "With respect, you did not specify precisely what should be done. You always _encourage _initiative to be taken."

His master sighed and sat down upon his favourite chesterfield.

"I simply don't know what to do with you sometimes, Severus. What to do with all this constant admin. Or what to do with the incompetents who are incapable of doing their jobs and must receive input on every level!"

"With respect-"

"Stop saying that, Severus! I know as well as you that that means _you're talking complete bollocks._"

Severus paused.

"With respect-"

The Dark Lord screeched in exasperation.

"_With _respect, you insist that nothing leaves the building without your approval. Many would be quite prepared to do these things," he indicated the pile of ashes, "themselves, but you insist upon it."

"I CANNOT trust these fools to work without my input but I simply don't have the _time. _There are more important things to be done-"

"Then might I suggest that you make a decision? Decide either to be a control freak with no time or to delegate and use your time more efficiently."

"Why do I allow you to speak to me in this way, Severus? Without deference to my title, even?"

"Perhaps because you know that I'm right. My_ Lord._" Snape gave a mock bow.

"That flourish would be worthy of Lucius. As would the thinly-veiled sarcasm."

"Indeed. Speaking of which-"

"Oh NO, what can the man want _now_?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Snape replied, handing him the letter.

"Did I invite you to sit?"

"Not to my knowledge, my Lord."

"Oh, go away, will you? Go and lurk somewhere. Terrify a few of the other slaves or something, just, leave me."

"With pleasure, _master."_

_"_And I'll have less of that cheek from you! Send someone up to do the fires, while you're at it."

Voldemort said back at the desk, opened the topmost draw, shoved Malfoy's letter to the very bottom, and began some of the correspondence at the top that he had been putting off for a time. Absorbed in work, he did not hear the other occupant enter the room.

* * *

[1]Henry IV part II

A/N thanks for reading, chapter 3 to be uploaded shortly. Please rate and review!


	3. Chapter Three- The girl at the fireplace

Chapter Three

The Dark Lord sat back, satisfied with his newly-drafted letter to the French Ambassador, and began to read it aloud.

"Monsieur, Je serai honoré si tu me joindre-"

"Oh _no_, you mustn't say that! That's all over the place!" came a voice from the fireplace.

A girl was striding towards him and snatched the paper out of his hand.

"Sorry," she muttered, eyes moving furiously over the page, not sounding remotely sorry at all, in Lord Voldemort's opinion. "I speak French and couldn't help correcting you. Whoever receives this in its current state would be deeply offended by your bad grammar, never mind the appalling spelling!"

"And what is so wrong, may I ask?"

"Well," she said, placing it for both to read on the desk, eyes fixed on the letter, "For a start, in the first person, the conditional of être should not be spelt like _that_!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, that should end with an "s", serais.

"I see... Anything else."

"Plenty. If you stop interrupting I'll tell you all the mistakes. Furthermore, you can't tu-toier someone who you're addressing as monsieur, that's just _rude_! Especially as you've addressed this to the French Embassy, I presume it is a formal letter?"

The Dark Lord was somewhat gobsmacked at being interrogated thus. Stunned as he was at the novelty of the situation, in which the conversation partner was not either terrified or in awe of him, or, more commonly, both, he decided to follow the girl's lead.

"Yes, it is intended to be formal."

"Then it should be _vous, _not tu! And you're suddenly switching to tenses in the first sentence! Honestly, what grade did you get in French at GCSE, this is the most basic thing ever!"

"I do not have a GCSE in French."

"Oh. Well, never mind. It'll be quicker if I just correct everything rather than explain it, then. Half a mo-"

Lord Voldemort watched in puzzlement as she picked up the quill, examined it with interest, then proceeded with the matter in hand.

"Nice pen you've got here," she said, not looking up. "I suppose you must be one of that lot?"

"Pardon me?"

"You know," she said, crossing out a word, "Wizards. One of them."

"Indeed. Have you met many wizards previously?"

"Not really. There's one bloke with lanky hair called Snape. My God, this thing's riddled with mistakes, hope you can read the corrections, there're so many you can hardly distinguish-"

"What did you make of him?"

"Snape? Not much, he kicked me. Bastard." She muttered.

The man chuckled "That does sound rather like him. He has never been fond of students."

"Yeah, well, I've read the books but he's more unpleasant in real-life than in fiction. Oh well, there you go. Rewrite that and I'm sure it'll be well received. My name's Roberta by the way, Roberta... Good Lord."

Lord Voldemort realised that the girl had not expressed fear in his presence as she had failed to look at him until this point.

Her proffered hand fell limply to her side. "You're him. Oh God."

"Whom, precisely?"

"Voldemort!"

The Dark Lord chuckled. It had been a long time since someone had dared say his name.

"I don't believe we've met previously? Now, you were introducing yourself?"

"Oh, erm, Bobby, that is, Roberta, sir, Roberta Alcott."

"How about you copy out that letter neatly, Roberta, and make a second copy for my records, hmm? And when you've done that, perhaps you could proof-read a speech or two that I'm giving?"

"Er, o.k."

The Dark Lord reclined on his sofa. Oxblood-coloured furniture was his favourite.

It would be a good thing, he supposed, to have someone to deal with all his admin. It would be the best of both worlds. By dictating letters and such, he would control the quality of content without the frustration of having to do all that writing. And Severus had said he'd have to choose between delegation and control in order to save time! The man was clearly an idiot.

"Tell me girl, if you can talk whilst writing? Who do you belong to?"

"Erm, no-one?"

"That cannot be true." The Dark Lord smiled. "You are a muggle, and all muggles must serve wizards. It is the law._"_

"Oh, really? That's interesting," she muttered, not really listening whilst continuing to write.

"Snape!" he called. "It may be necessary to pay someone off for this muggle. Apparently she knows you. To whom does she belong?"

The man went to inspect the object in question. "I have no idea. Am I supposed to recall every muggle I have encountered in my life?"

"Oi!" Bobby had stood, hands on hips. "You knocked me down earlier, how could you forget something like that?"

"Ah. Yesss, the kitchen brat from earlier. I do recall. She has no master at present, my Lord, but I must strongly advise against taking on so wilful-"

"Thank you, Severus. Leave, now."

"I have never before employed a secretary. Look at me when I'm talking to you, Roberta."

" I have never needed one. Only now, I shall soon have near to 60 million British citizens to control. When all resistance is crushed, we shall set our sights on France, Belgium and the Netherlands. I have yet to decide what to subsequently pursue. I may go to Spain: I imagine it would be an easy territorial acquisition for my forces, in its current state. Germany may prove more of a challenge should we expand eastwards but, strategically, it is far more useful to me. I trust that you understand what I am saying?"

Bobby Alcott absorbed this information with puzzlement, wondering what on earth she could have to do with future foreign wars.

"The task if vast. I am not in the habit of taking others into my confidence. My plans have never before been fully divulged."

"I have come to the decision, however, that I must have more time to devote to the most important tasks at hand. I need, therefore, a single person at my side constantly, to draft press releases for the masses, to minute Death Eater meetings and dispatch Action Point summaries afterwards, someone who I may dictate my correspondence to at any time, day or night. Henceforth I will make constant speeches, to the magical community, the muggles, my followers, even, my enemies. I simply lack the time to draft speeches and so this is the task for a secretary (with my editorial input), along with dealings with all press enquiries and, most importantly, the British and Internationals muggles' first point of liaison with my regime. In short, these are your duties. Well?"

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt your monologue until you were finished. Are you offering me a job, then?"

"You do not appreciate the privileged position that you are in, I see. You are indifferent to my plans for you. Let me tell you, young lady," he approached the desk, towering over her, "that there are millions with magic who would kill their closest friends and cherished relatives to achieve the status and safety I can afford others. Never daring to criticise, such individuals are truly incapable of assessing the situation and accurately reporting the facts, for fear of displeasing me. They are weak. Feeble. I need an outsider, to tell me, honestly, the public mood. Someone who has not spent a lifetime living in the magical world. A fresh set of eyes to assess a society she has lived under for mere days, rather than a witch. A mudblood is out of the question. I have no qualms against muggles: pathetic as you are as a race, your kind have not committed the crime of stealing magic. Pay attention!"

"I am." She was doodling spirals on scrap parchment.

"I have already neglected to punish you for your earlier instances of insolence. Do not tempt me further to cease staying my wand. Your hand would be too unsteady for the purpose of letter writing if I were to crucio you now, however."

"Sorry." She put the quill down and faced him once more. It was probably best, she reasoned, to let the nutter carry on his speech, which she was sure was for his benefit rather than hers, and respond whenever called for.

"What say you?"

"I presume you're not giving me a choice in the matter? Well, not a real one."

"Clever girl. Serve me or die if you refuse, it is quite a simple proposition."

"And what about my pay? What are my hours and holiday like? Is there a pension contribution and annual season-ticket scheme, free vouchers for the local leisure centre?"

"I offer no holidays and am bound by no European Union working hour directives! And no to any of the other things that you just said!"

"That's hardly acceptable..."

"I expect you, girl, to negotiate for better terms on _my_ behalf in business scenarios. Negotiation skills will be key in swaying the muggle leaders of the world to simply give in, and save the effort of going to war. Bargaining with me, however, is _not_ tolerated. If needed, creative punishments can be devised that would still allow you to continue in your duties."

"o.k., no holidays and long hours. Whatever. I presume I you're not prepared to discuss my salary, either?"

"You will be housed at my expense, you ungrateful child. There are no utility bills! Fires will be prepared, water, magical heated, your wardrobe and linen, cleaned, which, I might add, I most graciously provide at _my_ expense.

"Should you require stationary or new work clothes, within reason, these will be obtained." The Dark Lord came as close to shouting as possible for a man who spoke in a sibilant whisper. "All this, to ensure you are able sufficiently comfortable and equipped to work productively. What," he hissed, "_precisely _do you require more money for?"

" If I have somehow been remiss in my provisions, please, _do _tell me what I have neglected to consider."

The girl stared at her feet, thinking, to start with, a few basic comforts would be nice. Maybe cups of tea could be obtained by summons. But the sound of a boiling kettle, an assortment of teabags to hand and a favourite mug or two, personally-picked, or gifts from friends, were reassuring normalities of life. The Dark Lord simply didn't understand that she didn't want to be reliant on him. Yet he clearly, that was what he wanted, and he expected a show of gratitude. Perhaps, in the present moment, avoiding wrathful pain would be nicer than the aforementioned.

"I have a question."

"Which is?"

"What about your commitments to me? You've talked about my duties. If you _own _me," the word was distasteful in her mouth, "surely you have some obligations to look after me, or something. What if I'm doing my best but you suddenly decide I'm not good enough?"

The Dark Lord closed his eyes and chuckled. "I am beginning to like you more, you are certainly alert to missing detail and adapt at pursuing one for facts."

Steepling his fingers, the Dark Lord's gaze met hers.

"It would be a waste indeed to devote time and resource to you only to dispose of you. See to it that you genuinely work hard, and no harm will come to you. You have my word as a Warlock and a gentleman."

The word of the Dark Lord. Not so great to go on, she thought.

"I want to sign a contract to that effect, all the stuff you said earlier about housing etc."

"You may not. Even if I were agreeable to the idea, you have no rights. Only the privileges that I, your master, grant you."

_Is this actually happening? _Wondered Bobby Alcott. _And if it is, how? To _serve_ someone. A self-obsessed madman, by the sounds of all this wittering. With no end in sight. Except, perhaps, death..._

"You are indeed bound to work for me unto death. Cease your despair at this prospect. I am well aware of your former ambitions, ones that you may never realise. I read them clearly as though laid out on a page in ink. Your hopes, fears, weaknesses. Oh, there are many weaknesses. And exploitable anxieties."

" You are less inadequate, however, than many servants I have had the displeasure being served by, however. And whilst _your _constant babbling is an irritation, which must be stopped, your, I must call it somewhat naive, enthusiasm, your lack, for the most part, of fear in my presence are novel qualities. It is a refreshing attitude, compared to the snivelling cowards I am forced to endure daily There are many benefits to be enjoyed in servitude to the Dark Lord. For one, I anticipate that the Prime Ministers and Presidents of the world will clamour for your attention in their attempts to gain access to me."

The girl continued to stare at the floor so he would not try to read her mind. There we are. Delusions of grandeur, again. Does he really think the rest of the world with give a toss about what's happening to the UK right now and won't steer clear of this maverick, given half the chance?

The Dark Lord misinterpreted her demeanour.

"I dislike sulking, young lady. The work is hard, yes, but there will be little physical discomfort, only a healthy degree of stress, hardly comparable to the lives of those who will toil in the cold streets under my new regime. Those who retain a modicum of wealth will clamour to deliver you gifts, again, with a hope of accessing me through you, my secretary."

Yep. Sure they will.

" To put it in terms familiar to you, as Squeeler to my Napoleon, you will live the life of luxury compared to the rest on the farm."

The life of a _slave. _To Lord Voldemort, a fictional character who is, in reality, very real.

_This is all mad_, she thought._ Best not to dwell on the implications of this strange turn of events. Focus. Take your mind off it all through work. _

"Right, well, er, shall we get started? Where're those speeches you were talking about? Fine, I'll go through the content in a little while. First, have you thought about the delivery style? You might try to be seen as a warmer personality, in touch with the listeners' concerns, so to speak, if you stand _before_ the audience rather than behind a podium. Let's try practising a few open hand gestures...

A/N Thanks for reading, I'll update before long. Please R&R :)


	4. Chapter Four- Wizarding Etiquette

Chapter Four

"Well, well, ickly girly-wirly! Not lost are you, love?" The witch grinned wickedly as her eyes darted at the sight of Roberta Alcott.

"Slaves do the cleaning in the night, you aren't to be seen when Wizarding Kind are about. Naughty, naughty, look who's caught, eh?"

She threw her head back, cackling manically, then, straightening, aimed her wand, tongue flicking to lick the side of her lips.

"Let me help you on your way, my dear..."

Bobby closed her eyes to prevent her rolling them. So, Bellatrix was as insane in the flesh as in fiction, was she?

_Speak politely,_ she thought,_ softly but firmly, so as to resolve the present predicament without provoking her..._

"Mrs. Lestrange, if you would allow me to continue on my way-"

"How **dare **you address me so forwardly, insolent brat!"

She shot a hex, which the girl had been expecting, and, throwing herself to the floor, Bobby avoided its path.

"Oooh, prostrate at my feet like muggle, slave scum who knows her place at last, are we? Stay still dearie, and I promise not to damage you _too much_."

Roberta Alcott's breathing was heavy. "The Dark Lord will be most displeased if I am late, Bella."

The woman froze in the act of kicking the crouched figure, stumbling.

"And be sure, I will not fail to report who was responsible for preventing my attending to him."

Bobby stood, feeling more confident.

"You see, Bellatrix, we both serve the Dark Lord."

She stepped closer towards the witch.

"We will _both_ be punished if this farce continues and he comes looking before I go to him. We are, in that respect, Bella, both equal-"

Bella darted forwards, quickly covering the little distance that remained between them, and struck Bobby on the cheek.

Bobby staggered back at the force of the blow, hitting the wall behind her.

The witch stood, staring. Waiting.

Bobby walked past the woman who made no attempt to stop her. Uttering a brief _thank you_, she followed the corridor round to the right and promptly knocked on the door to the Dark Lord's office.

The door swung open.

"You are late, Roberta."

She straightened, meeting the red-eyed gaze. "I am sorry my Lord, I got held up by Bellatrix Lestrange and resolved the incident quickly as I could-"

"You met Bella?"

"Yes."

"But she does not know of your existence."

"So I gathered from her reaction! But she does now-"

"Obviously."

The Dark Lord was puzzled. Why had he not heard the tortured screams of this girl if she had encountered his most vicious Lieutenant on her way? It would appear that she had escaped unscathed. Roberta Alcott was most intriguing...

"Explain the encounter. No, you may not sit down unless you are invited to do so!"

"Very well, my Lord. Well, she wanted to play, naturally," Bobby garbled, "and wasted time trying to intimidate me, when any _sensible_ person would incapacitate first and _then_ talk once the opponent were immobilised-"

The Dark Lord glared dangerously. "Alcott-"

"Sorry, I'll get to the point. Erm, where was I? Oh, yeah, so I was all, like, _the Dark Lord will be most displeased if you continue to obstruct me_ and yeah, she let me pass, and here I am."

Bobby grinned. "I always do manage to intimidate with a suitable amount of cold informality."

She giggled, before adopting a serious tone.

"Shall we proceed with the day's business, then?"

"Very well. Proceed."

"Er, hang on."

_Damn it. Hadn't she been carrying the day's briefing notes on her way here?_

"I'm terribly sorry, m'Lord, I'll just be a moment finding the diary etc., reckon I must've dropped my stuff in the corridor a moment ago, when I fell -"

Lord Voldemort darted forward, grabbing her chin so that she would meet his gaze.

"You made no mention of having fallen in your account. Pray, give me all the details before we depart from this topic. I will know if you are lying."

All insolence in the ranks must be resolved. Including that of his servants towards others.

"Well, she tried to hex me, and I got out of the way. Maybe I dropped my stuff then but I can't be sure, could equally have been when she slapped me."

Voldemort relinquished his hold, turning away to clasp his hands behind his back.

"Bella struck you?"

"Yes, like I said." She continued: "I'm relieved, to be honest; with a temper like hers, an unforgivable would have been awful!"

He gazed once more at his servant, his muggle secretary.

"It is the most grievous of insults for a witch or wizard to strike with their hand. Worse, even, than to use muggle weaponry against one's opponent."

" It shows that the enemy is not even worthy of the effort of flicking one's wand. You could not be more wronged if she had bared her behind at you."

Bobby Alcott wanted to snigger at that comment but, remembering her master was a serious individual who would not appreciate his lecture being received with laughter, she kept a straight face.

"Oh well, I'm not offended in the least."

"You should be."

"Well, no one likes getting slapped but when you think of the alternative, I'm rather glad I got off so lightly."

The Dark Lord's tone became light and pleasant. It did not bode well.

"You are glad, are you, Alcott, to have been degraded thus? Glad, as my servant, no, _possession,_" he snarled "to have been struck by _my_ inferior?"

He began to pace the room. She looked on, quietly afraid.

"An assault on your person is an assault on Lord Voldemort. You must be cursed to rectify the situation."

_What?!_

"My Lord, please. Forgive me, I-"

"You will sit and you will listen. _I _have no intention of cursing you. Not on this occasion. Bellatrix has undermined my authority."

The pacing became more harried. The scarlet curtains were still closed and, despite the efforts of the morning light, trying to poke through, it was difficult to follow his movements amongst the shadows.

"When one is thus insulted, all others will hold the injured party in contempt. Or worse, _pity_" he spat.

"To give an example in terms you would understand, your injury is akin to being spared in a duel whereby one's opponent, instead of shooting to kill, deliberate fires into the ground. For the duellist, it is better to die a noble death than for one to be spared in so pathetic a fashion. It shows that you are not worth the cost of shot and powder in the gunman's eyes. Furthermore, injured party is scorned for having escaped so lightly."

The anachronism made her briefly forget her situation.

"People haven't duelled like that since the Regency!" she laughed. "Shot and powder?! Sounds like something out of Jane Austen! Hardly a contemporary reference..."

"Silence! As you live in my service, you must be cursed by Bellatrix to restore my honour. Harshly. The others must be in attendance as witnesses."

Roberta Alcott's heart raced in fear; she had yet to be subjected to the cruciatus.

"But my Lord, you've got a Press Conference with the PM and Foreign Secretary, later, we must go over you briefing-"

"It can wait."

The Dark Lord pressed his wand to the Mark on his left wrist.

"My followers come. Stand to my left. Remain silent."

She scrambled from the chesterfield as a series of popping sounds filled the room. The circle began to form. Bella had yet to arrive.

"Some of you will have heard rumours which I now seek to clarify. It is true that I have acquired a muggle." He gestured nonchalantly at the girl.

"I keep that muggle close to me. She is a diligent worker, seeing the futility of resisting magic, and this asset, combined with her knowledge of Muggle Society, makes her an essential tool in my efforts to consolidate my rule in an expanding realm."

Roberta chuckled internally. So his muggle upbringing and half-blood status still remained a secret amongst his followers?

She made a mental note of the fact for future reference, ignoring that it was a dangerous thing, plotting to blackmail her master. Her mind continued to wander in this vein as she tried very hard not to think about being cursed.

With a pop, the gathering was complete, and Lord Voldemort turned to the final arrival.

"Bellatrixxx," he hissed, "struck my muggle with her _hand_."

The Dark Lord pointed his wand at the woman.

"You will restore my honour by cursing the girl properly. Remove your wand, Bella."

She did so, hands shaking.

"Await my command before casting"

Voldemort turned to his left.

"Girl, you will not make a mockery of me by attempting to avoid the curse. You will accept what is coming without resistance."

He bent closer, speaking softly, so that only Bobby might hear.

"Resisting will only further weaken you and delay recovery. There is no shame in collapsing and screaming. Better men and women than you have done so at her hands. The ordeal will not last long."

Bobby nodded, stiffly.

"Good girl." He straightened. "Look your attacker in the eye," he commanded for the others to hear.

The Dark Lord gestured for Bellatrix to proceed. She struck Roberta with the cruciatus curse squarely, in the chest.

The pain was unbearable, nerves screaming as though she were burning beneath flames. Bobby had, as the Dark Lord detected, given thought to trying to retain some dignity by making not a sound.

There was no possibility of such self-control. Only pain, and the desire for all to end.

Had the passage of time slowed, or was she simply more aware of each excruciating second? How long had she been suffering thus? Roberta Alcott could not be sure...

"That will do, Bella."

"Do not attempt to sit up, this morning has been most trying; I would rather not compound my irritabilities by having to contend with vomit in my quarters. Severus, carry the girl."

"I want her fully recovered and returned to me in no more than twenty minutes so that I might _finally _proceed with the day's business."

This last comment was directed at Roberta, who nodded (or, perhaps, merely slumped forward in Snape's arms) before losing consciousness.

Severus gave his master a nod and strode from the room without a word.

Voldemort turned his back on the room's remaining occupants.

Bellatrix Lestrange fell to the floor. Sobbing, she clutched at the rim of the Dark Lord's blood-red robes.

"My Lord, PLEASE! Curse me, I BEG of you!"

"You deserve to be ostracised, Bella. I will not absolve you so easily."

"If you had simply cursed the girl when her insolence offended you, this would not have happened. As it is... I will not curse and forgive you until I deem that you have been suitably punished.

"Until then, my loyal followers," the Dark Lord continued, "shun this woman, and let this be a lesson to you all to _never_ seek to interfere in my affairs and to adhere to proper, wizarding etiquette at all times!"

A chorus of "Yes, my Lord" later, and Lord Voldemort was alone once more.

Bella had been the last to leave: her uncontrolled sobbing momentarily preventing her mustering the steadiness required for apparition.

Lord Voldemort sat upon the fine, oxblood leather desk-chair. Clasping the tips of his fingers, as though in prayer, he gazed into the distance of the still-darkened room.

The girl was beginning to serve his purpose. And he had not had to do anything to orchestrate affairs.

One would have to look very closely to observe the Dark Lord's features flicker in a smile. His upper-lip curled ever-so slightly on one side. He was most pleased.


	5. Chapter Five- Mr Severus Snape, or, a v

Chapter Five- Mr. Severus Snape, or, a valet's advice.

Warning: contains mild references to sex/ non-con and suicidal thoughts. Rated M for a reason!

"Owwww."

"Don't move. Here, drink this. Careful, now."

Severus Snape bent to press the phial to Bobby's lips. She batted it away.

"I don't know what it is" she mumbled, weakly.

"It is a pain-relief potion. Drink!"

"I'm not drinking something if I can't verify its contents for myself!"

She tried, and failed, to sit up. "Don't you have some paracetamol or something?"

Snape didn't have the patience for incomprehensible wittering. He consumed half its contents himself, before offering the phial again.

"See. Now you know that it's safe. I'm afraid my stores are low and half a dosage won't be potent enough to stop the pain. It will dull it significantly, however."

"For all I know that's some aphrodisiac or something that you just drank and want to make me-"

"For heaven's sake girl, I haven't got time for this. We may both be in a great deal more pain if you delay in taking measures to heal-."

"Whatever. No, you don't need to force it down my throat, I'll drink the bloody thing. Oh, and some of that too? Fine, it doesn't matter, either way. Why have you taken it away, I haven't finished it?"

"Because, I too need some strengthening solution and this is my only phial."

"Oh. Is that why you took the pain-relief, too? Not just as a demonstration?"

"Yes." He replied, stiffly.

"Are you hurt in some way?"

The solution had begun to take effect, and she now stood to face Snape.

He grimaced. "You will come to find, one is quite often "hurt in some way", in the course of serving our master."

Bobby was surveying the room, trying to process his meaning. She was still groggy after the torture.

Snape noticed her begin to sway, and helped her sit back down. "We have another ten minutes. It is best you don't overexert yourself until it is necessary to leave."

"I'm starting to feel better," she replied.

"Good."

"It wasn't poison, then?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I decided I didn't care, a moment ago, what that liquid was. When you mentioned _him_- what he's capable of, I mean... I half hoped," she yawned, closing her eyes, "that if I drank some strange liquid, it might let me escape. End this madness."

Her voice had become weaker as she lay down.

"For God's sake girl, let's have none of that. Where's the plucky, defiant young woman I encountered yesterday, hmm? The one who shouted at me in the Dark Lord's office?"

She gazed at the ceiling.

"For the second time in as many days I'm lying at your feet." She laughed, mirthlessly at first, before the laughter became manic, hysterical, and Bobby Alcott choked back a sob.

"My life has changed for the worse," she coughed, "irrevocably, in a very short time."

Snape was not sure how to respond and so continued to look on, in silence.

"Have you ever thought about dying, Mr. Snape? Since he came back, I mean?"

The man did not respond. It was as good as a confirmation, in her mind.

"Wouldn't it be better than life serving him? A way out? I'm scared. He's mad and, I hear, very violent."

Snape was becoming very alarmed at the tone that the conversation had taken. Perhaps she was delusional, he reasoned, having a bad allergic reaction to the magic in the potions. Perhaps he would rather think that than acknowledge the very thoughts that, at times, plagued him.

"Come on, up you get now, see if you can manage walking. I'll support your weight if needs be."

"Do I have to go back?"

"Yes."

"Why? What's the point? I think I want to die..."

"Stop it! Stop that, now! Snape shook her.

"You are not alone in this. Tens of thousands have been enslaved in this country, have witnessed their lives change in a traumatic manner, and that won't stop until he reaches his goal, and millions serve magical masters. Then it will just be business as usual for all of us.

"As for the point, young lady, it is to try to use any influence you have over his affairs, over him, as he comes to depend on you, to trust you, for you to try to relieve others' suffering."

"What if I don't want to be the people's patron saint? I have my own problems, bugger other peoples'-"

"Fine. Look out for your own interests at the expense of others, then. Just don't expect to earn my respect in so doing."

He frog-marched her in silence for a time.

"Or there's the alternative-"

"Stop these suicidal contemplations! It is unhealthy for one so young as yourself to think thus. Besides," he added, "He would never allow you to take your life if you are of use to him. So there's no use thinking of such silly things, now, is there?"

"So if I don't do what he wants-"

"If you defy him, it will hurt. Believe me, Bellatrix's curses are mere tickling compared to the things he can do."

"I might as well do it, just let myself be tortured into insanity-"

"Don't be ridiculous, wishing such a terrible thing so lightly. It would never happen, in your case, anyway. He will make you suffer even more, until he has what he wants from you. He always gets what he wants. And right now, he wants you to organise every facet of his life for him. Apart from all the things I do, of course."

The noisy steps of the pair continued to fill their silence as they proceeded along the stone floors and stairs of the ancient building, until they reached the executive floors, where the nice carpet started.

"What _do_ you do, exactly?"

"Prepare his bath, dress him. Cleaning his chambers, mending clothes, bringing meals, all without magic, of course. Running errands and, occasionally, I brew potions."

"That's quite a lot."

"Indeed."

"Was that your potions lab?"

"Yes."

"It's rather small. Are your living quarters next door to it?"

Snape snorted. "Slaves don't have _living quarters_. I sleep there on the floor, on that pile of rags where you lay, a moment ago."

"What, that's your bed?"

"We don't have beds, either. We don't have anything, much."

"I thought- I mean, some Death Eaters call him master. You mean you aren't-"

"His willing follower? No. In my capacity as slave, I tend to our _master_" he spat the word "as a valet and general dogsbody."

"Oh..."

They walked further in silence, for a moment.

"I wonder where I'll end up sleeping?"

"If you don't end up bunking with me, you'll probably sleep with him."

"What?!"

"On his floor, most likely. He'll probably want you close, so you can be woken and start taking note of any _brilliant _ideas he has in the night. He doesn't sleep much, so I'm afraid you won't, either."

"And... do you think I should be worried about, you know, him-"

"Taking advantage of you? No. He doesn't form sexual attractions. I don't believe he has ever had sex in his life."

"Oh, thank God for that! Knowing that is a relief."

Snape was torn between honesty and allowing the girl to nurse this glimmer of hope in an otherwise gloomy existence. She might be spared Lord Voldemort, but who could say whether the man would decide to reward his favoured followers by giving them the girl for a time, or something equally ghastly?

Whilst he hated to sugar-coat the truth, Severus Snape decided, for the time being, to say nothing further on the subject. He could but hope that the Dark Lord would show his usual possessiveness and vindictiveness, and not allow others to share his things. Equally, Snape feared the possible implications of the man's volatile nature.

Bobby supposed she _ought _to count herself lucky. There were tens of thousands of others in servitude under this regime, were there? All with no rights, mere property of their masters? Roberta shuddered to think, how many were in sexual servitude? How many agricultural or domestic slaves had to put up with harassment, unwanted attention, or worse, from those with power over them?

They had arrived at the corridor leading to the Dark Lord's chambers.

"I thought about what you said earlier: I'll try, if I can, to make things better for the others. The, um, other slaves. And thanks for the tips on him."

Bobby made to leave.

"One further piece of advice, Miss Alcott."

"Yes?"

"Try to stick it out in there. No more of this giving-up nonsense. He's a harsh man, but he never gives up on something when he's decided on a course of action. If he's invested in it emotionally or time-wise, he sees it through to the end. The same applies to you, and so your experience won't be as unpleasant as some others' in our situation."

"Invests in stuff. I'll remember that."

"Why else do you think he didn't give up on the lost cause of pursuing Harry Potter? Oh, and one, final thing. Never, ever mention that man's name in front of our master."

"Got it. Thanks again, for everything."

Snape held out his hand. "I may see you before long but if not... good luck, Roberta Alcott."

The hand shake was firm from both parties. Feeling braver than before, Bobby approached whatever fate held in stall for her.

A/N, thank you for reading, please review if you've enjoyed the story so far!


	6. Chapter Six- the Maniac and the meeting

Rated M for safety and occasional swearing/ leeway for future plot developments!

**Chapter Six- The Maniac and the meeting**

Bobby placed a hand on the entwined serpents' handle protruding from the high, oak double-doors and was about to knock, but stopped, hearing low voices within. She didn't want to disturb anyone, she told herself. More like, she didn't want to miss the opportunity to eavesdrop, unobserved, whilst she had the chance.

Suddenly, her master screeched "-snivelling, wimps of creatures I have had to endure for a FORTNIGHT!"

Not able to stomach the accompanying screams, she hastily knocked.

The door crept open an inch.

"Did I permit you to enter?!"

The Dark Lord's enraged screech answered his own rhetorical question, followed by his sending a fireball through his own intricately-carved door.

Thank God that he's got a terrible aim, thought Bobby, before replying: "Pardon me for interrupting, but I believe I am on time for our meeting. May I come in, or would you prefer that I wait?"

He ignored so, attention now occupied elsewhere, so she came in anyway.

"Get out of my sight, Lucius," the Dark Lord snarled.

The man on the floor jumped, attempting to straighten his now thoroughly-dishevelled robes from all that writhing about down there.

Lucius Malfoy gave his best attempt at an imperious nod, followed by a curt, but weak, "my Lord", and strutted from the room. It was an impressive effort, given he was still shaking from the cruciatus.

"What's that you have there?" Lord Voldemort demanded of his slave, sharply.

"My bag. I had it with earlier, remember?"

Lord Voldemort let out a moan and sunk into an armchair, this one patterned with a William Morris design.

_He must have a multiple-personality disorder or something_, thought Bobby, _all these intimidating rages followed by moping_...

"Why? WHY must I be surrounded by incompetents?"

"It's just got a pad of paper, pens and things, nothing to worry about-"

"My followers can't do a _single _thing right," he moaned, head in hands, through the gaps between his fingers. "All personal items should be confiscated before slaves are transported. I even had a second Search Station set up at the gates to this very building in case-"

"I know!" she replied, brightly. "It wasn't very effective, was it? Anyway, cheer up! Now I'm here to help get things organised! How about," she opened the diary that she'd removed from the bag, "I make a note to sack the security staff later?"

"I do not regard that as sufficient."

"To have them killed?"

"No, no," he waved one hand away at her, the other still clutching his head. "A torture en-mass in front of family members will suffice."

"Okay, I'll put in the diary for 3pm, if you'd care to witness it?"

"Excellent." With his spirits lifted at some sport to look forward to, Lord Voldemort stood. He froze, staring.

"What on earth are you wearing?"

"Erm... the clothes arrived in and haven't been able to change since? Hadn't you noticed?"

Her master refused to acknowledge any such lapses in attention on his part: to punish her for insolence would simply act as an admission to his ignorance.

"They're appalling," he instead replied.

"They look much better when I'm not covered in Death Eater-raid-created grime!"

"Put this on." He had produced what looked like a faded, black robe. It was several inches too short and so showed Bobby's black skinny-jeans and laced-up ankle boots.

"It will have to do," he mused aloud to himself. "I cannot have you disrespecting me by appearing in public dressed in improper attire. Yet, on the other hand, I cannot have you look too respectable, sartorially, either: people might mistake you for a freeborn witch."

Honestly, the man was so obsessed with wasting his attention on silly little things, no wonder his Ministry was so shambolically organised!

He pinned a broach to the robes' front: a silver skull, with emeralds for eyes and a silver tongue.

"You will wear these daily, as a sign of your position, and that others may come to recognise you."

"K. Shall we go to your meeting, then? It's nearly nine o'clock."

His wand itched to curse the ungrateful, impudent brat. But then, he reasoned, she would be unable to take minutes for the next several hours. He would have to repay the deficit of justice later...

"We need delay no longer." The Dark Lord swept across to the pink marble fireplace, adjacent to his desk.

"This," he gestured, "functions as a portal between my Ministry and Hogwarts, where we meet the Inner Circle. The magic was developed, initially, to enable muggles to accompany their unnatural, mudblood offspring to Platform 9 ¾."

"I have no desire to subject myself to soot and will travel by other means. You will wait for me on the other side."

Roberta Alcott had no wish to become covered in coal dust either but saw that there would be no offer to clear it away by magic on _her_ account. _At least this cloak thing I have to wear is protecting my favourite coat. _Her only coat, now, she remembered.

Crouching before the fireplace, Bobby turned to seek permission to leave, aware that the order to pass through had not yet been given. She found her master had gone. Inhaling deeply to steady herself (she'd heard that travelling by fireplace was a dizzying experience), she coughed promptly as the choking soot caught her breath, then inched forwards, hand stretched out, aiming to touch the back of the deep fireplace for support. Her hand groped only at thin air before finding cold stone, in stark contrast to the comfort of the plush burgundy carpet before the hearth.

It was odd, she thought, that the Heir of Slytherin had such a taste for red things. Much of the furniture in this room, the cape he wore today, this carpet. Dismissing the thought, she supported her weight on the, as yet, invisible, stone, quickening her pace and stood as soon the low barrier was behind her.

Bobby was surprised (and rather disappointed) that she had heard no swoosh or noise of any kind, seen no flash of light, felt no sensation of being sucked into a void and spat out again. It didn't feel so magical without all that, although she could hardly dispute that this _was _magic.

Dusting herself down, she started at the sight of three men in black, hooded robes, blocking her path.

She did not recognise them. One smiled wickedly, the other two simply stared, stonily, ahead.

"Looks like the Dark Lord has sent us a plaything," said the man in the middle.

"I hope you're a screamer, my pretty. The last lass was a disappointment, whimpered a bit at first but mostly cried in silence during my turn. Still," he continued, "reckon she was a bit tired out by some of the earlier buggers, aye, lads?" This had cracked a smile from the two thick-set men flanking him. Judging by the loud buzz of conversation, the room was quite full of people. No-one paid the group the slightest attention.

Roberta was terrified. Where was the Dark Lord? Or someone who might actually look out for her... "Snape!" she screeched. "Help!" This prompted a few interested looks.

"He aint here, girly. The slave scum's to execute one of your lot, I 'eard. Dark Lord's orders."

The man extended his wand to press at the base of the girl's throat, looking her up and down as though unsure of where to start cursing, when a tall figure with long, blond hair swept besides the fireplace.

"What is causing the delay? All must be seated for the Dark Lord's arrival." Malfoy barely glanced at the girl blocked by the three men before addressing the Death Eaters, as though her presence could not possibly be cause for abnormal behaviour. He would have given them the benefit of the doubt, he realised, and allowed them to get on with it, if he'd know who was engrossing the men. That _bitch, _he mentally spat, was responsible for Bella's immediate exclusion. And she'd seen him in that most - compromising- position, only moments earlier.

"Aint you got eyes in your head, man? We're devising how best to deal with the girl what's walked into our clutches."

As it is, Lucius thought, now that I've been seen to have seen her... best not risk his Lordship's wrath...

"Where's the Dark Lord?" Bobby piped in, "Voldemort will-"

"Do not besmirch his name with your filthy tongue!" Lucius failed to stay MacNair's hand in time to prevent the ensuing shout of "crucio!"

Roberta's body was licked with invisible flame, attacking the nerves, as she shrieked in agony. The room had fallen silent as the attention of the room was fixed in interest at the proceedings.

"You idiot, Walden" sneered Malfoy, drawing his wand as the curse came to a halt. "Were you not present to witness my sister-in-law's humiliation? And I suppose you are blind as well as half-witted? I expect as much of Crabbe and Goyle, but do _you _not observe, the mark the girl bares? It may well be somewhat covered in dirt, MacNair, but it is clearly discernible. The Dark Lord will be livid if he finds that-"

"That what, Luciusss?"

The man shivered under the intensity of the legilimency, then fell to the floor, snivelling and grovelling.

"My most loyal followers." Voldemort addressed those assembled round the table.

"I regret that the start to our meeting is delayed. I shall be a moment longer whilst administering justice." His smiled. "Do please talk amongst yourselves."

Those on the side nearest the Dark Lord immediately turned their backs away from the spectacle of writhing, intertwined bodies of flailing men. The opposite side of the rectangular table, unfortunately, had a direct view of the event. It was rather odd, observed Roberta, that the Inner Circle looked so uncomfortable watching the torture: she had heard of how they delighted in similar spectacles throughout this war. Bobby supposed this was different. The Death Eaters might be imagining themselves on the receiving end of Lord Voldemort's wrath. Or remembering it.

* * *

The meeting was rather distasteful. Bobby fought to keep up with writing the steady stream of self-congratulatory drivel, how successfully each speaker rated his ability in creatively devising deadly tortures in towns that had been taken, before the vital details came, so quickly that she almost missed them: statistics of numbers dead and captured for enslavement...

"Item number three on the agenda," the Dark Lord intoned. "Distribution of newly-acquired territories for feudal-agricultural management and pillaging... Birmingham remains unassigned, if you could submit your applications to my office by Monday, for consideration."

_That means to me_, she huffed, internally:_ I'll have to deal with a line of panicked, trumped-up cretins who all at once queue nervously outside the door at the last minute, no-one will hand it in early..._

"The county of Somerset is awarded to Draco Malfoy for his excellent proposal on invading Wales from the county's North Coast..."

_Yawn. These people are thick_, thought Bobby:_ don't they know that those waters are treacherous, if not deadly, at the best of times_?

The minutes ticked by and her hand ached. Not only that, it was downright depressing, listening to her country going well beyond the dogs.

"Item number nine," called her master, "Conversion of current territories to newly-productive purposes. Beginning with the Home Counties. Proposal for Hertfordshire to be given over to Brussel sprout production. All those in favour? Unanimous, motion carried!

_Of course it bloody-well carried_, Bobby thought, _he bloody-well suggested it. No-one would _dare_ suggest to Lord bloody Voldemort that it's a _stupid_ bloody idea_.

_And honestly, radish-planting throughout Surrey? Idiots, idiots, the lot of them! _She knew the soil was mostly chalky and alkaline, yes, Roberta Alcott knew, and yet no-one presumed to ask the opinion of a resident, who sat in their presence, on the feasibility of such a plan! it was her county after all, her home since birth- had been, she corrected. Had been her home.

"... I therefore call a close to this meeting! My most loyal followers, it has indeed been a pleasure. I look forward to joining you all for dinner this evening!"

* * *

A/N: Thank you very much indeed to all my readers and reviewers for your support so far! I already have the next couple of chapters ready and will upload them before long. If anyone has any suggestions or requests for future plot developments, I invite you to submit them (like the Death Eaters' apps for B'ham!) Please review if you've time, it really motivates me to write knowing there are readers out there enjoying my work :)


	7. Chapter Seven- Bribery and Burdens

Chapter Seven- Bribery and Burdens 

"Enter!"

The wizard was surprised to hear a female voice when he knocked upon his master's chamber door, even more so when he found himself standing in an anti-chamber that had not been there that morning.

He stared at the petite figure seated behind a dark-wood desk, piled high with a disorderly array of papers.

"I wish to see the Dark Lord."

The girl looked up from the document she had been writing, pen poised above parchment.

"Do you have an appointment?"

The man sneered at the girl who sat before him, blocking his way to the chamber wherein the Dark Lord received visitors.

"You don't, by the looks of it. I could fit you in with a meeting for him in, let's see, a week on Tuesday?

"Don't be absurd, girl!" He spat. "I don't suppose you know precisely how important I am but ignorance is no excuse for such insolence."

Bobby Alcott looked up from the green leather-bound diary.

"Mr. Malfoy, I know precisely who and _what _you are, but the Dark Lord is a busy man and I am instructed not to let anyone see him without prior arrangement. Be sure, I review additions to the diary with him every evening. If he believes it's urgent, no doubt he'll request that you meet sooner than what I'll have scheduled...

Lucius Malfoy did not appear to be listening, as he made to walk around the desk toward the door.

"No! You can't go in there!"

She grabbed hold of the back of his cloak, which matched his three-pieced, grey pin-striped robes. His steps faltered as he felt a tightening around the neck from the obstruction of the fabric.

"You insolent little-" Not knowing quite which character traits to insult, he paused.

"Who even are you?"

"Come, now, you can't be stupid? This is, what, about the fourth time I've seen you since I came here?

The man continued to glower at her. "How," he spat, "precisely did you come to be here? Am I to be usurped by a mere mud-"

Bobby waggled her finger at him. "Muggle!" She said in a sing-song voice. "Not mudblood! You're too used to saying that word, aren't you?"

Lucius thrust his wand at Bobby. "I will curse you into oblivion, you wretch of a-"

She stood quickly, staying his hand.

"I don't think, Lord Chancellor," she said, seriously, "that you'll be doing yourself any favours that way. Or your sister-in-law."

"Now, if you don't mind, I have to finish this speech for the Conference of Magical Merchants and Artisans. Will you be wanting that remaining slot in twelve days time or do you want to go away and have a think about it? There's no need to come in person. You can reach this office by owl, email, phone or fax, the office is connected to means magical and muggle."

This jabbering was giving him a headache. Had she been speaking a foreign language for a moment? Although he understood the word muggle...

"Still here?" She sighed, replacing the lid on her pen and placing the speech to one side.

"At the very least have the decency to offer me a chair, girl!"

"Believe me, if I were able, I would. Then I wouldn't be eye to eye with that garish, yellowy-gold-coloured watch-chain and the light that flickering off it. You'll have to conjure one for yourself."

"Now, if you're wanting to see the Dark Lord, I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, as I'm the one with the diary. I tell you what,"

She leaned in, close. Lucius recoiled from the muggle filth.

"I'll let you see him within the week. For ten galleons." Bobby said, in a conspiratorial whisper.

" If you want to see him by tomorrow, I could swap you with Mr. Fotherington-Smyth of the Magical Farming and Fisheries High Commission, but that will cost you double. Hmm. Rather indiscrete of me to be giving away names of those down to see the Dark Lord, but I suppose it hardly matters given the unscrupulousness of such blatant requests for bribery..."

Lucius Malfoy needed to sit down. This female was exhausting. He conjured a tall-backed, green armchair. "I'll take tomorrow's appointment then."

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" Roberta trilled.

Wormtail shuffled through the door.

"Ah, Mr. Pettigrew, yes, his Lordship did say to expect you. There is one remaining appointment-slot in the near future," she glanced at Lucius, before turning again to Wormtail, assessing who was more likely to pay. The former was complacent, if a little weary. The latter, terrified. Wormtail, then.

"How would half past four tomorrow suit you?"

Wormtail was alarmed at the idea of prioritising anything over compliance with his master's request to see him. And he looked it.

"Quite. Well then, the only question remaining, Mr. Pettigrew, is how much are you prepared to pay to not get cruciatused?"

He stared at her, blinking, fast.

"I am sorry if I don't make myself quite clear. How much do you consider an appropriate payment for my telling the Dark Lord that you came immediately to make an appointment, as requested, rather than to report that, despite my waiting all day, you never came by?"

"20 galleons!" he stammered.

That was far more than she had expected as an initial offer but she had to maintain an air of nonchalance so he wouldn't know.

"Thirty," she yawned, glancing at her nails. "I have kept Mr. Malfoy waiting for an appointment for rather a long time, if you don't want the only one available. Would close the door on your way out?"

"Twenty-five! Here," He counted the sum and thrust it into her hands.

"Fabulous. Thank-you ever so much, Mr. Petigrew, his Lordship will expect you tomorrow at 16:30. Good afternoon."

Giving one final glare at the girl, and a strange sort of bow-cum-convulsion in the direction of Lucius Malfoy, the rat wheezed out of the room.

Roberta noted the details.

"Does you master know that you are taking bribes?"

"As _you_ well know, he does not. But you won't be able to tell him without an appointment. And you won't be able to get an appointment without being nice to me. Which," Bobby added, "won't be any time soon, giving _me_ ample time to hide my earnings-"

"I've had enough of this farce!" Bellowed Lucius. "Wormtail may be so spineless as to defer to a disgusting muggle. I, on the other hand, shall not lower myself to so unworthy an action."

Roberta stood. "So have I. Mr. Malfoy, I shall be forced to summon magical assistance to eject you from the premise if you continue to obstruct me from my other obligations to my master. Our master, I should say. We both serve the Dark Lord in one way or another, after all."

"If it falls to me to instruct you in how to behave towards your betters, you filthy slave," he screeched, "so be it! I'll curse the diffidence into you, by Mordred."

"Are you saying that you know better than the Dark Lord how to discipline his servants? That's rather arrogant. I don't imagine he'll be very please with you when I tell him."

Lucius screeched, aiming a crucitus at Roberta Alcott. The pain seared through her fragile frame as she shuddered before her screams began.

The door behind them open.

Lucius Malfoy instinctively aimed his wand at the newly-emerging figure, before realising that it was Lord Voldemort, and quickly lowering it.

"My Lord, I-"

"Luciusssss." The Dark Lord smiled. "Tell me, was there a _particular _reason for your choosing to disturb me? I was on a rather important call with the Chinese and Russian premiers, you see, before this _ssspectical_ compelled me to end it."

Lord Voldemort turned to Bobby.

"Roberta, I have no wish to see this man. Be good enough to ensure that he does not disturb me for the foreseeable. Include yourself in that instruction."

He slammed the door.

"I must petition for Bella's pardon. Give me a blasted appointment."

There was a flash of light from the corner of her eye and a crow was spat from the fireplace, a letter held in its beak. It landed on Bobby's desk, bouncing forward a bit before she steadied it and removed its message.

"From the war office... Look, you'll have to come back later, Mr. Malfoy, this looks important."

The crow launched itself towards the fireplace, only to hit it smack in the centre and bounce away again.

"Hang on, I don't suppose you have any floo powder to send it back? I'll take some of that instead of money, I don't know how to work these things yet, maybe I can't- stop a sec! I could fit you in for..." she turned the page of the diary, "08:45 in four days time? Only five minutes with him, though... Oh, bugger."

The man had turned on his heels in a huff at this latest humiliation and flounced from the room, indignantly.

"Git!" she muttered.

Bobby Alcott wrung her hands. "Why bloody bother coming wanting an appointment only to bloody waste my time. And I've got to get those Action Point summaries finished and out before the end of the afternoon and-"

She looked down again at the message.

"Shit. I'm wasting time, might require an immediate response. Bugger, bugger, _bugger_.

She swallowed and knocked on the door behind her desk.

"You had better have a very good reason for disturbing me again."

"Message on the war."

The Dark Lord snatched it from Bobby's hands and scanned its contents.

"Would you like me to draft a reply?"

"Yes. Reply "Proceed."

She hurried to comply, snatching up a sheet of parchment from his desk.

"Would you like to sign it?"

"No. Just end with the usual."

Bobby scribbled._ "Dispatched from the Office of his Excellence, the Dark Lord Protector"_... _And the date. Just need to stamp it now. _

"Your seil?"

He gestured at the desk.

"Oh, right, it's here after all. I'll get that off now. Will there be anything else?

"Yes," he hissed. "Return immediately after."

Bobby jogged next door, attached the reply and brought the bird to the window opposite her fireplace. It wouldn't budge, the stubborn thing wanted to go back the way it came, so she had to chuck it into the open air for it to take flight.

Bobby leaned against the door frame, awaiting instruction.

"Take note of this dictation, Roberta. Copy it and be sure to hand-deliver each. Let us see... who is to lead my forces into battle? Rosier, Rookwood, Nott, I shall involve neither Malfoys nor Lestranges in my present affairs, so perhaps Mulciber will do and... I will deliver to the fifth individual myself."

_Fine by me_, thought Bobby, _less work_.

"Write as follows: _Derby has fallen. I have given the order to commence our campaign of Nottingham, to be followed by Lincoln. You will quash the rebel-holdings in East Anglia. Commence by destroying the ports. Capture territories and commodities from all sides as far as Cambridge. You may do as you wish with those who are unfit to work. Deliver the cargo in the usual fashion. Then return to me when the city falls._ What are you waiting for girl? Get a move on and duplicate so that I can sign them!"

Bobby sat frozen, continuing to stare at him.

"Commodities? Slaves, you mean."

"What is your point?"

"If I write that," she said, slowly, "they'll go and kill and capture a lot of people."

"Well-under six millions, I believe. A satisfactory addition to current supplies. Well?"

"I don't want that on my conscience."

Lord Voldemort pressed his wand at the nape of her neck.

"Write! Unless you wish to join their number?"

"That's precisely the point. _I _will live... provided that I work to ensure others die. Countless others."

"The order will reach them," he snarled, "whether you wish to bear the message or not. And if not at your hands than at those of some other compliant servant. If you have a death wish, another suitable suppliant will be found to work in your place. Otherwise, desist in your self-pitying moral digressions and go and do as I bid!"

Bobby danced out of the path of her master's wand, snatched up a pile of blank parchment from his desk, strode across the room and slammed the door behind her as she fell into her chair and started to cry, quietly, sobs becoming louder, more choking.

She was to be complicit, was she, in cutting off the last hope of those still trying to flee the country? There were no rebellions! Just people all gathering in one of the few remaining parts of the country devoid of Death Eaters, one from where it was still possible to try to leave for the current safety of mainland Europe. Of course, in her _master's _eyes, that smacked of rebellion: he probably thought the muggles should be falling over themselves to be the first to bow at his feet.

She could pretend this was fun, some of the time, that there were perks to being amongst magic, to playing an important role in the grand scheme of things, liaising with characters she had read about since childhood. The occasional pain from the violent ones wasn't great and she'd tried, in her short time here, to distract herself from those unpleasantries by busying herself with the work, with the occasional bit of chatter to try to lighten the mood. How could she possibly try to carry on with that, when the work involved so many innocent lives?

But then, if Roberta Alcott did not convey the message, someone else could, more likely, would. It was her master's orders. Voldemort's, not her's.

_If people are going to die in the coming days, _she thought, _I'm _not _to blame. There's nothing I can really do to stop it. I'm just doing my job. And if I don't, then... well, that can't mean any good will come my way, either... _

She began copying.

_Stupid Severus Snape, _she thought. _Bloody hypocrite. What does the man know? Use her influence over Voldemort, should she? She didn't have any. How could she ever have any? Do what she can to relieve others' suffering? _There was no scope for any of that. Comply or _die_, submit and _survive. _

Quite why Lord Voldemort was prepared to put up with such tantrums, he could not say. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had better uses of his time than stalking sulky slaves and administer punishments, however well-deserved.

He dismissed the line of thinking for later, laying out his political map of the (former) United Kingdom on the central table of his chambers, removing a cluster of ivory stumps from his desk, the second draw down, on the right.

The remainder of England was the priority, he mused, stationing the markers on several towns and cities of Yorkshire, before sleeping these across the map, knocking them down in a group over Manchester.

"Yesss." He muttered. "Then Liverpool. Then from the Scottish territories," he positioned a figure on Inverness, "I can move down, taking Glasgow, while the forces from Liverpool move up, and close the gap between. Then, after a brief expedition to Wales... He knocked the ivories from the map. They fell, tinkling as they toppled on one-another, landing at his feet.

"All of Britain will be mine-" Lord Voldemort stamped on an ivory piece, wishing to crush it. The bone-like substance was in no way damaged by the gestured. He screeched, then blew it to smithereens. "_MINE," _he snarled, "within the week."

A/N: Apologies for the update delay, I took an impromptu holiday with no internet access and then decided to put another two consecutive chapters I had ready in a later part of the story, so rewrote the chapter for this! Thank you to readers and reviews for your ongoing support. Next update will be quick if I'm procrastinating or slowish (1 week or so) if I'm sensible: I'm moving abroad as of this week for the year (part of my university degree) and I'll have lots of academic work and settling in to do!

Please, rate, review and follow, share with anyone who may like it, etc.!


	8. Chapter Eight- Battles commence

_"It must be remembered that there is nothing more difficult to plan, more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to manage than a new system. For the initiator has the enmity of all who would profit by the preservation of the old institution and merely lukewarm defenders in those who gain by the new ones."_

Niccolò Machiavelli, _The Prince _

In the darkness before day-break, a small crowd of wizards and witches had been assembled, to the best of Bobby's ability, so as to appear spontaneously-gathered. This was a defining moment in history, she had been told, and so needed to be orchestrated just-so. Quite why such pretences were necessary, when the victor could and would simply re-write history to his advantage wherever possible, Lord Voldemort's slave did not know. As it was, Lord Voldemort appeared by the by the harbour at what was (formerly) Her Majesty's Naval Base, a passing wizard had the _foresight_ to conjure him an adequately-intricate stage and lectern, and within three minutes of his ascending the aforementioned, at least thirty curious passers-by (all with sufficiently pure blood-statuses) had ambled over to observe the proceedings. Bobby Alcott gave the signal. Others quickly joined in the applause. Then silence fell.

"My friends...

Thank you for your most warm reception. It is indeed an honour to be received by you all here today, in Portsmouth.

I stand before you immensely proud of what we have together achieved. Today, the peoples of Britain stand united by magic.

Today dawns a bright new future, fair for all wizarding kind, which I intend to extend to the whole _world_ from this day forth.

My friends, our forefathers first crossed these waters to lay claim to these fair Isles nearly one-thousand years ago. It is therefore a privilege indeed to witness the fleet that will restore the historical ties of united rule over England and France.

In the words of one of our most renowned and respected members of historic, wizarding royalty, King Henry V, a most valiant wizard and king, of a line of wizarding monarchy that was so _cruelly _eradicated by the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the ensuing International Statute of Secrecy,

"Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance:  
No king of England, if not king of France."

"Happily, the hated Statute is henceforth obsolete. Britain no-longer recognises this tortuous symbol of our repression. We shall no longer be restrained and subjugated thanks to the machinations of mudbloods and blood-traitors alike, both past and present.

To those who have reservations regarding the muggle problem, I say this:

Were we not _ourselves _enslaved by muggle masters, hiding that which is at the core of our very being?

In seeking respite from persecution, in kowtowing to their superstitions and sensibilities, has not our race suffered _inconsolable_ subjugation?

Is it not appropriate, no, fair, therefore, that muggles repay their debts in kind, and submit themselves to their magical masters?

As for the blood traitors who masquerade as ordinary citizens, in collusion with thieves of knowledge and magic, the scum that are mudbloods, they shall be shown no mercy through servitude.

It is thanks to them, that we have been compelled to live in pockets of isolation, banished from the thriving towns and cities that _wizards _worked to establish, left with but a single school, a single, poor excuse for bank (for it neither lends nor invests money), a single train and bus and a single broadsheet newspaper in all the land, a single main street in _our _capital to which we turn for our ordinary shopping needs.

All this repression, in order to constrain our activities.

Our potential growth was stunted, that our impact would be minimal, that our presence would go unnoticed.

It is our right, no, our duty, to our ancestors, to reclaim what is rightfully ours, the nation that they created and left to us.

It is furthermore our duty to punish those responsible for its decline.

Hence, I have striven tirelessly, that we might arrive at this point. Happily, as we stand here, today: Britain lies united under magical leadership."

There was a murmur among the small assembly of spectators, daring not to interrupt, yet unsure of whether this was a cue to clap. The Dark Lord continued, as though he had not paused expectantly.

"As we are gathered here today, our chains of secrecy, finally having fallen, we find ourselves free. My friends, we are _free_, after more than three-hundred years of most _miserable_ suppression!"

_Still, they do not cheer, _Lord Voldemort pondered. _Yet if I curse them into submission, that rather defeats the point of the exercise..._

And so onwards, without further interruption.

"Today, together, we claim our future.

A future of development.

A future of advancement.

A future of prosperity, fair for all.

I am proud that my fleet will go forth today, to spread our new-found freedom.

We may only begin with France but we must hasten in our quest to remove the shackles of wizarding secrecy from our magical brethren across the continent, then, throughout the world."

The Dark Lord directed his gaze away from the crowd, at those of his followers, chosen to command the assortment of frigates and destroyers. His voice was magnified for all to hear.

"Remember this, as you set sail across the English Channel for Normandy today- this day, we witness the dawning of a brilliant future for all.

"I wish you Morgana's grace, and Mordred's speed, in your mission!

Go forth, my friends, and pave the way, this day, for the most glorious future of our united, wizarding race, for the freedom to all wizards who remain enslaved!"

There was a huge outbreak of applause and cheering from the assembled as the Dark Lord came to a close. How much was genuine approval, how much was a display of loyalty to ensure their survival and that of their families, it was not possible to say. It did not matter, Lord Voldemort supposed, recalling wise words...

_ "Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved.__**" **_

The Dark Lord signalled the commencement of battle, casting an array of red sparks into the sky, surrounding the naval fleet.

His slave affixed his cloak before swiftly ushering him from the stage, through the parting crowd.

"Your assessment?"

She said nothing.

"You are wary of offending me. Do not be. I should value your analysis."

"Honestly?"

"There is no other way to guard yourself against flattery than by making men understand that telling you the truth will not offend you."

"Machiavelli?"

"Indeed. Go on."

"The delivery wasn't bad. Good use of dramatic pauses."

"And the content?"

"Well... It lacked clarity, I thought. Confusing, thematically."

Lord Voldemort chuckled.

"My dear girl, _you _wrote the piece, did you not?"

"But you insisted on editing it beyond recognition!"

"Where do you find fault, exactly?"

"All over the place, as I was saying: no one is going to remember what you said.

Where were the repetitions, memorable quotes that resurface? It was just-" she gesticulated, trying to find the right word, "messy."

"I believe I conveyed the required sentiments. That is sufficient, no?"

"It isn't if no one can remember anything afterwards! It needed to be really tight, snappy, you know, get the main 3 or 4 points across and repeat them. You had France, kings, the Statute, France, and then the Statute again all in one go! Then mudbloods and blood-traitors, muggles, then mudbloods and blood-traitors again! "

"There is your much sought-after repetition, I believe."

"No, the themes should have stayed whole, not broken up with your switching back-and-forth. You were supposed to stay on message. How will anyone have followed that ranting?"

"I note that you appear to have followed without difficulty."

"Of course, _I_ knew what was going to be in it, I've worked on it all week, and kept track of _your_ redrafting, but even with your _refusal _to show me the final draft, I had no idea you'd make such a hash of it-"

This was hardly constructive criticism. The Dark Lord was losing his patience...

"I do not require _your_ approval for _my_ speech."

"Think about it, a bloke goes home tonight and says to his wife _"I heard the nation's new leader give a really rousing speech today! Oooh, what did he say, darling? ...I can't remember, dearest. It was really good though, I assure you!_"

...And finally lost it. "Desist in this blabbering!"

Roberta Alcott continued to follow his lead, walking in silence for a time.

"I have to hand it to you, though, the history was good."

"Oh?"

"Completely twisted the truth, I mean, your manipulation was pure _class_. Praising Henry V's example before bemoaning James II's ousting? Hardly an ideal comparison for legitimating your regime. You know Henry's father came to power by usurping Richard II?

"What is your point?"

"My point is others might see that you're trying to draw parallels between yourself and a Gryffindor-educated king with legitimacy issues, at the same time as criticising what _you _consider an illegitimate line! It just doesn't work!"

He would have to stop the girl from speaking to Severus. Of course the man would have delighted in telling inconvenient truths about Gryffindors that were otherwise acceptable instruments for achieving his aims...

"The comparison stands: a hero of old with one of new. One who is restoring the old order."

"I thought you were calling it the New Order? Ouch!"

Voldemort closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

"Don't compel me to curse you again. I tire of your ranting."

The August morning was cool for the time of year. Voldemort allowed the folds of his cloak to envelop him against the breeze. Bobby shivered, cold in spite of the brisk pace of walking.

"I wonder what the press response will be? The usual gushing praise, no doubt."

Bobby frowned.

"No doubt, if there were one, but there weren't any members of the press present!"

"Why on earth not?" Lord Voldemort glowered.

"You _said_ not to invite any. Maximum impact on the troops, you said, if the visit were unannounced, appears to be spontaneous."

It had been a rather eventful week, he supposed. Perfectly natural that one might forget some aspect or other. Not best to acknowledge this fault, however.

"Spontaneous. Indeed. Ties in rather nicely with what you called the _messy _structure."

Lord Voldemort made an open gesture with his arms, as though about to embrace someone. It was a stance he believed to be most suitable when commencing a speech.

"I spoke from the heart, unprepared." He smiled. "Or so it would appear."

They were still within view of the harbour. The Dark Lord watched the ships shrinking into specks on the horizon.

"I have achieved my aims this morning. What matters is that the fleet feel patriotic prior to the invasion and subsequent bloodshed. I have no doubt eliminated any moralistic qualms that any individuals may have held."

His idiot muggle did not reply. He was compelled to elaborate.

"Murder is considered acceptable when committed in seeking a higher, moral cause. Why else do men go to war?"

He did not await a reply this time.

"Men risk death, dehumanise the enemy, commit unspeakable acts. Only the desired future predominates their thoughts, the perceived _unbearable _nature of the status quo necessitates desperate actions. To kill. Or to be killed. Either the former, or both, but never inaction. That is war. That is politics."

"Words are the most powerful of weapons. Quite often, words have simply no effect at all. Mere noise, hot air, is emitted from most mouths. Correctly employed, however, words lead to and sustain war. Words lead to conquest. Victory. It is thus that I rose to power, gathered a loyal band of followers in the two most recent wizarding wars. The sentiments stand, and will be taken to heart as my loyal soldiers enter battle at this moment. It is thus of little consequence, whether or not my speech was memorised by bystanders."

Bobby had listened, sadly contemplating the horrors of war, the callousness of its initiators, like Voldemort. She now saw that she could make a contribution of her own.

"They're not soldiers if they're in the navy. Come to think of it, they're not soldiers by any stretch if you've put them in charge. They're Officers. Naval Officers."

The Dark Lord would not be lectured in military matters, terminology or otherwise, by a mere muggle. Neither would he acknowledge his mistake to said muggle. Before he had decided whether he could curse her without losing face, more noise invaded his brain.

"It's barely bigger than a flotilla, you know. I don't see why you didn't use Davenport and the Clyde combined with Portsmouth."

"Magic is might. It is purely a symbolic measure."

The full fleet of France would be no match to his forces.

The Dark Lord broke his gaze from the forms ploughing through the waters, as the blood-orange orb began to break through the clouds.

He resumed walking, swift strides that were difficult to keep up with. The companions and the minutes silently passed, through streets strewn with filth, of near-identical, dilapidated housing, blackened, bordered-up shop fronts. The stench was choking. Whether of sewage, or scorched flesh, the lack of rubbish collection following the collapse of muggle institutions, or a combination, it was not possible to say. One thing alone was evident: the war had been harsh on the city and its inhabitants. It was a horrifying thought: this had been the fate of the nation. Beyond these borders, this would be the result of Lord Voldemort's proclamation: a bright new future, fair for all _wizarding _kind.

In common with the rest of the country, the power was in short supply, and Lord and slave would have walked in complete darkness ,despite the presence of street lamps, were it not for the brightening rays of the still-rising sun.

Bobby was first to break the silence.

"Where are we going?"

No voice replied for a time. Then:

"Dispatch the text in full, with instructions for front page publication in this evening's edition of the Prophet, along with tomorrow morning's, to be accompanied by news of victory on the continent. It must be emphasised that this victory was ensured by my rousing speech, which young wizards aboard took to heart in their quest to spread freedom, and that specifics of territories newly-acquired will be dispatched this evening."

Roberta Alcott snorted.

"_If _there is news of victory."

"The can be no doubt that there will be."

As they lost all sight of the harbour behind them, Bobby spoke.

"You don't see any irony in invading France with the Royal Navy? A muggle institution?"

Her master snarled. "It is _my _navy now."

"I suppose you had to imperius the muggle Officers and crew? Her Majesty's Armed Forces would not be inclined to betray Queen and country to serve _you_."

"The means are unimportant."

"So, apparently, are your words, your ideology. All that stuff about what's rightfully wizards' and reclaiming what was your ancestors'? Muggle institutions fit right in amongst that, I think _not_."

"My dear, you really must reacquaint yourself with _the Price_, it is simply all one needs to know of politics. _"Whosoever desires constant success must change his conduct with the times... The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar... Men are so simple of mind, and so much dominated by their immediate needs, that a man will always find plenty who are ready to be deceived."_

"A deceitful man. A deceitful man finds plenty to deceive. You can't misquote something just because you don't like to think of yourself like that-"

"_I_ am Lord Protector of wizarding Britain. Soon to be King. Soon to rule the world. I may do as I wish."

Lord Voldemort grabbed Bobby's arm and pulled her into the concourse of the railway station.

"_You _will now return to London."

"Without you?"

"Evidently."

He handed her a purse. "To cover the fare, and a cab to the ministry."

"The trains are still running?"

_Evidently, when I wish it. _He would not deign to respond to such a dense comment.

"Where are you going?"

"I have a meeting."

She narrowed her brow. "But I always go with you to meetings! Can't I take notes?"

"I do not wish it on this occasion."

"Why?"

"Remember the dispatches. And I shall expect you to attend my chambers this evening, on my return."

She did not volunteer to bow or address him as Master, so he imperiused her to do so for good measure, before appearing away.

It occurred to Roberta Alcott, ensconced alone on a train bound for London Victoria, that should could have run. Should have. It had not occurred to her to escape. Instead she had obeyed orders, without a moment's second thought. Why? And why had she been saddened at the rejection by her captor? What would others in her situation have done? What should she do now?

The girl was afraid of the man who hurt her and made her call him master. Any normal person would be, she consoled herself. She was also afraid of the changes to the country she had observed. The remnants after so much chaos. If she tried to escape, where could she go? Could she find family and friends, alive, and try to carry on with life and its new difficulties and dangers? No... What if she found out they were all dead? Better to carry on here and take comfort in not knowing the worst, in hoping they're all well and that she was missed, but loved, even though they could all be dead... But there had to be _someone_ still out there who cared for her, who could look after her. But if she fled, what if... what if _he_, that monster, came looking for Roberta Alcott, to reclaim his wayward possession, and killed her protectors for good measure?

Over two hours passed as Bobby Alcott thought herself into a frenzy, facing the opportunity, no, the dilemma, that occasionally occurred to those who have been held captive throughout history. Is it worth the risk? What _if _the consequences are worse than the present? _Better the devil you know..._

The train rattled unceasingly towards London as the girl battled within her mind, while 180 miles away, Lord Voldemort's warships were half-way to France.

X X X

Author's note  
X X X

Apologies for the delay. Since moving to Jordan to study as part of my Arabic degree in the UK, I've been ill a lot and had huge vocab lists to memorise daily. So thanks for coming back to read the story when I'd promised I'd update ages ago, and I promise I won't make gross under-estimations of when updates will be in future. Rest assured, I will continue to write the story. I'd love to be updating all the time, so when free-time does arise, I will devote it to writing, just can't say when that will be!

I've always wondered what sort of public speaking, if any, Voldemort made to rally supporters. After all, the people who did nothing to stop him, as much as actual, active Death Eaters, were as much to blame for his rise to power as anyone else. I hope my attempt will have been enjoyable and given some insight to his thoughts and attempts at persuasion, cannon and otherwise.

I would be interested to know, if you would be willing to share- what would you decide if you were in Bobby's position?

Comments and suggestions for future plot developments are always appreciated.

Until next time, and thank you again for reading,

Mudblood Slytherin and Proud


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